Logic Error
by RaymondShaw
Summary: "You've known for a long time that you're different – that your brain doesn't function, doesn't travel, in the same circles as everybody else's." 'Logic error' – a bug in a computer program causing it to operate incorrectly, but not to terminate abnormally (or crash); producing unintended or undesired output or other behavior, although it may not immediately be recognized as such.


**An introspective Joe-centric character study, with a healthy smattering of my own Joe headcannon thrown in for good measure.**

* * *

**This is my first attempt at a HACF fic – so please, _please_ _PLEASE_ let me know what you think of it! It has been a labor of love, my friends; and an absolute _bear_: because Joe is a _voraciously demanding, exacting,_ and _totally insufferably inscrutable prick_ of a muse to write for…but once he gets his claws into you, he hangs on and doesn't let go.**

**Hope you enjoy! Be mindful of the trigger warnings – which seem to cover just about everything in the book, this time. Blame Joe, not me: it's not _my_ fault he can be such a dark character!**

***Trigger warnings: extremely vulgar/coarse language, McCarthyism, homophobic slurs/homophobia, antisemitism, bullying/body shaming, underage sex, attempted sodomy/rape, graphic depictions of violence, referenced suicide, referenced drug use/abuse***

* * *

You've known for a long time that you're _different_ – that your brain doesn't _function_, doesn't _travel_, in the same circles as everybody else's.

You first start noticing it when you're nine in 1957, when Sputnik 1 is launched while the whole of the Western world is caught in the thrall of the Red Scare and all you can think is, _we've _done_ it; we've put something in _space_ – next they'll be sending _people _up there. _And the thoughts _scare_ you in an _exciting_, _thrilling _way, leave you breathless with _awe_; because this is _terrifying_ and _beautiful_ and _amazing_…but everyone around you just seems to get stuck at 'terrifying' because it's been the _damn commie Ruskies_ who've done it first.

(You have a split second – an _eternity_ – to understand their terror the night your foot slips and you fall three stories to hit the picket fence in your own front yard, and you see more _stars_ than you ever did up on the roof. Two years and a blur of countless surgeries later, you learn all the king's horses and all the king's men really _can't_ put Humpty Dumpty back together again – at least, not good as new.)

By next year all the kids at school seem to have _forgotten_ all about it – as if it _never happened_ – and all they care about is the stupid Colts vs. Giants game; which you _don't_ understand at all, because who could possibly care about _that_ when mankind is starting to explore that _last_ and _wildest frontier_, unlocking the door to the _secrets_ of the _universe_? And you try to explain, try to make them understand your unbridled _passion_, your aching thirst for the _knowledge_ and _greatness_ that is surely to come – but you're the _crazy kid_, the _freak_ who spends more time taking trips to and from the hospital than sitting in a classroom; and you just get told to _shut up_ or _get stuffed_, your classmates calling you 'Joe MacStalin' behind your back, and suddenly your teachers want to know if everything's alright at home.

Nobody'd ever warned you that these were feelings you were supposed to be _ashamed_ of.

You _learn_.

* * *

(Mom would have understood – she recognized the _wonder_ of discovery – but she's not _here_, anymore.)

* * *

The knowing deepens when you turn twelve and now the girls lose their cooties…but for you – _only _for you – the _boys _do, too.

* * *

It solidifies like instant cement when you're fifteen and Philip Grünwald – _Phil Greenwood_, he calls himself – moves to your school. Skinny, brown-eyed, Jewish Phil, who understands _calculus_ and _derivatives_ and _integrals_ and all the garbled mathematical _incomprehensibilities_ that drive your marks down and your mind crazy…but can't _do_ English. So, you tutor each other on the buddy system – and, as linear algebra starts to finally move in straight lines and Phil grasps the difference between a metaphor and a simile, you lose track of just _when_ the guiding of pencil-gripping hands, the accidental brushing of arms and legs as the two of you sit side by side become _something more_.

Not that you _care_, when you and Phil are jammed, packed like sardines, in a cramped stall of the boys' bathroom with your breath coming in fast pants and your heart pounding in your throat and you're both too _tall_ and too _long_ for this to be comfortable – and Phil leans in toward you, and you toward him, until…_your lips meet_, are on someone else's, for the very first time.

This _feeling_ – it's unlike any you've had before, as your mouths slot together and your hands go to his shoulders as his go to your waist. Phil is angular, knobby and sharp under your questing fingers; but the shape of his bones and skin fits into your cupped palms _perfectly_, like matching puzzle pieces, the same as the jut of your hips curves _just right_ beneath the creases of his knuckles. And it _grows_, like a live thing pulsing through your blood, _insatiable_ and _wanting_, until the necessity of clothes is an unwanted restriction and the two of you are pressed, smashed, grinding together like you're trying to graft skin to sweaty skin; until wandering hands drift south and Phil's fingers apply just the _right_ pressure as he _squeezes_ and –

Oh. _Oh!_

You must be _flying_, _shooting_ past the stars on golden wings, even as the air punches out of your lungs and your knees buckle and you scramble, fumbling, to reciprocate; and both of you are throwing off_ sparks_ as you chart a course, a madly spinning trajectory, through a heretofore unknown territory of sheer _bliss_. Phil and you crash-land together on the same foreign planet, sticky and sated and jelly-legged as you get used to gravity again – and you know the stupefied _marvel_ in his dark, blown-out pupiled eyes mirrors that in your own.

You feel like an _explorer_, a _pioneer_ – and you think, _is _this_ what they were looking for, those men who built that spacecraft?_ It must be, for you've finally found an outlet for the _burn_ you've been living with since you first learned to talk in full sentences. And you can't help but laugh from the _joy_ of it, laugh until Phil's laughing, too, with you; until tears are running down both your faces – because you've learned that discoveries are _most _wondrous when they are _shared_.

* * *

(After that day, you can't _ever_ get enough. You know you'll spend the rest of your life _chasing the high_.)

* * *

You're sure, if you weren't already, that Phil's _right_ for you the afternoon gym class is over – and thank _God_ or whoever that it's the last one of the day…because the excuse of changing makes this so much _easier_ and more _delicious_ when hands can just slip under unbuttoned shirts so your nails can scratch all up and down Phil's back as his teasing fingers pinch your aching nipples raw – and he finds those jagged, ripped-up lines scoring your chest. You _know_, because his eyes are only _questioning_ – not _pitying_, or full of _revulsion_, as everyone else's are – and he doesn't _stare_, _lets_ you get away with a muttered, "Later," because the scars are the very _last_ thing you'd want to be thinking about right now…or _ever_, really, as you move to shove your tongue down his throat –

And then it all goes _spectacularly_ straight to _hell_ in burning flames.

Flames in the form of three senior track team stars; all of whom have two years, a few inches, and several pounds on you both. The two of you must have been making some kind of noise without realizing it, because it's unerringly _your_ door they kick in – so fast there's no _time_ for dissembling – to find you with your hands stuck down the front of Phil's briefs while his are down the back of your gym shorts, both of you with sweat-soaked hair plastered to your foreheads, half in and half out of your shirts; rooted to the spot like a pair of deer caught in headlights.

The three of them drag you, tripping over your own feet in paralyzed shock, out of the cubicle; hustle, herd you into the showers, out of sight of the changeroom door. One pins you in place by the arms while Phil struggles against another as the third says, "So; _this_ is what the bookworms get up to in their free time," and the whole time he's looking at you – at your _scars_ – like you're a particularly ugly species of exotic insect. "Whaddaya know; it's a walking freak show!" You feel something unexpectedly_ dangerous_ crackle amongst the fear sparking in your gut.

He steps in close, so close you can smell that cheap cologne all the sporty types think makes them seem macho; whispers, "You like sucking on the kike's cock; huh, _faggot_?" and when you don't answer his hand shoots down between your legs and _grabs_ until you_ roar_ in humiliated agony and a "Yes" is forced out from between your clenched teeth. Distantly, you hear Phil cry out from somewhere beside you.

A corner of your mind can't help but find it funny, how it's not _even_ a lie – by this point, both of you have given and gotten head…and _loved_ it.

"Why don't you _show_ us," he says as you gasp for breath, "go on; lick his dick for us and we'll let you go. Or," he continues, sniggering, "maybe you'd like to lick mine. My buddies might be choosy about which mouth they'll use…but, not me."

For a crazy half-second you _actually_ entertain the idea of taking him up on it, if you could be sure it'd mean your freedom…but, of course, you can't; and Phil's sobbing now and so you set your jaw and shake your head, sharply. "No, thanks."

"Well, now; that's too bad." The Jock, as you've named him in your head, pouts in mock disappointment. "Luckily, though, I know something fags like even more than they like to suck." He smiles – a cold, sadistic thing that makes your skin crawl. "They like to _fuck_." You watch him savor the filthiness of the word, his friends snickering at the casual vulgarity. "That's true, isn't it? Bet you've done that, too; haven't you – and loved it." You _haven't_, actually, though that's clearly irrelevant. "Let me hear you say it: 'fags like to suck, but they _love_ to fuck'," he taunts, singsonging the crude rhyme so as to emphasize 'love'; and you try to tune out Phil's stammering, "F-fags…l-like…t-to…"

"That's good; because we've got a little surprise for you two queer lovebirds, haven't we?" Jock disappears for a minute around the corner; comes back. "Lookie here." And your blood turns to ice-water as he holds up a broom handle, no doubt expropriated from the custodian's closet down the hall.

You stare at the smooth, worn-polished wood of the pole in disbelief. You've heard of hazing rituals like this, but you'd _never_ – You gnaw desperately on your lower lip to hold in a whimper, bite hard enough to draw blood and taste salt and pennies on your tongue. Dimly, you hear Jock and his lackeys cackle in sick glee as Phil suddenly lets loose his terror in a flood all over the floor's cracked tiles.

"We're gonna _see_ how much you love it," Jock says, brandishing the handle; he's staring right into your eyes so you can't look away, like a mouse hypnotized by the gaze of a snake. "Think it'll _fit_?" say the arms gripping you, and you have to fight the urge to spew your guts out over your own shoes. You can feel yourself shaking like a leaf. "Sure, it will; all fags are _real_ loose, don't you know that?" "How many inches you guessin' he'll take?" asks Phil's captor, and you hear Phil moan like a dying man.

"I don't know." Jock's still looking right at you – or, no, _through_ you – sounding like he's figuring on it. He shrugs, nonchalant; a maniacal gleam in his eye. "Guess we'll find out."

"Hold him down," he orders; and you tense, straining with all your strength as the muscle holding you tries to wrestle you to the ground – And that's when the last thread of Phil's sanity _snaps_ as he can't take any more. Tearing himself free in a panic-fueled burst of strength, he makes a break for it. The broom handle swings up, comes _down_ across the back of his head in a dull _whack_ – and Phil _drops_ to the tiled floor like a stone.

He does not rise. The vise locking your arms to your sides loosens as the remaining four of you, uncomprehending, freeze for a second; _staring_.

And now something in _you_ snaps. Inarticulate, screaming, you launch yourself at the three boys, arms flailing and fists flying; you get in one good hit and hear the _crunch _of bone. Your knuckles throb mercilessly; you're not sure if the blood you see is your own until one of them reels back, hand to a crooked, streaming nose.

"You _broke_ my… You little _fucker_ – " And then they're on you, all three at once; and you feel yourself borne to earth, kicking and punching like a demon all the way. You're unaware of any pain as you scratch, claw, and bite for your life – but you can hear the _spitting_ and the jeers of _freak _and _fag_ and _queer_ and _cocksucking motherfucker_ ringing in your ears like the clang of an enormous bell; feel their _hands_ on your skin, your hair, ripping at your clothes, the stifling hot, sweaty _press_ of their bodies contrasting the cool _hardness_ of the broom handle's wood against your bare inner thigh – You can't _breathe_, you're going to go _mad_; you can hear somebody _shrieking_ in tight, animal _yips_ of fear and only the stinging of your raw throat tells you the cries are _yours_ –

And then, from _nowhere_, you hear the shouts of adult voices – and large, grown-up hands are tearing the seething mass of your tangled limbs apart. You find yourself lying on the floor of the gym's showers, bloodied and trembling; your shirt torn and gaping open, your shorts dragged halfway down to your knees and the fly of your boxers unzipped. To your acute embarrassment, you feel the sticky wetness of tear tracks on your cheeks. A huddled cluster of teachers is looking – no, _staring_ – down at you in faintly horrified concern, and you _know_ they're seeing your _scars_ and your _half-nakedness_ and your _tears_ and your skin crawls again; you pull your shirt closed and hitch your shorts up jerkily, your arms, legs, and body automatically curling _inward_.

Someone – you're not focused on who – offers you a hand, and you take it unsteadily. The climb to your feet is snails-pace slow, _excruciating_…but your bruised knees hold your weight once you're up. Jock and his buddies are corralled by the wall, looking as worse for the wear as you feel. And Phil: Phil's _standing_ – or being held up – wet patch spreading across the front of his briefs, pale, hand on the back of his neck…and all you feel in that single moment is dizzying, profound _relief_.

The person whose hand you realize you're still clinging to is Mr. Parsons, who you have for history. He's patting you down discretely, searching for any injuries beyond the obvious cuts and bruises; which puts you in mind, bizarrely, of a police frisking. "My God," he murmurs, "are you alright, boy?"

" 'M fine," you manage, though your chest's on fire and your ribs creak with every breath. Momentarily satisfied, he steps away from you; the set of his thin lips and the rims of his nostrils are white with fury. He's _livid_. "Somebody want to tell me what's going on here?" he clips out, and before anyone can answer, he bellows:

"What in the _blue fuck_ was that?!"

You actually _flinch_ before you can stop yourself; you've never heard a _teacher_ swear, before. "Rob, calm _down_," a woman's voice pleads – but Jock's been jolted from silence by pure astonishment, and he bursts out:

"They started it!" And as all heads turn to him, he bulls his way through, "MacMillan and Greenwood, sir; they've been having…_unnatural_ relations." You can hear the silent sneer of _faggot_ in his voice as he speaks. "Simmonds, Polk, and I caught them at it."

"_Don't_ start trying to feed me _excuses_, Waller; because I don't want to hear them! Nearly beating one student _unconscious_; assaulting a second with a _broom handle_ – The principal and your parents will be hearing about this incident directly. I suggest you and your gentleman friends think critically about your futures – for you no longer have one at _this_ school. Count yourselves _lucky_ if you can stay out of juvenile court. Barbara, Dave – if you would…" And, just like that, your three tormentors are gone; marching down to the office with their escort. You feel the adrenaline begin to seep from your body, leaving you shaky and weak – and you barely make it to the toilet in one of the stalls before you're retching miserably, throwing up everything you ate for lunch today.

When you stumble back, the history teacher's probing, prodding at Phil's head while he winces. "You've got a nice goose egg, there – take at least a week to go down. But it looks like you'll both live. Hush, boy; don't be embarrassed, just change your pants. It's okay." But then Parsons turns, and you _know_ what's coming; you can _see_ his disgust and recoil from the unspoken thought in his eyes as he looks at you, questioning. "Was it true, what he said? _Were_ you – "

The unwitting accusation pierces you; hardens your resolve, straightens your back. If there's one lesson you've learned today, it's that there are parts of yourself you must hide to have an existence in this world. And you've always been _very_ good at hiding.

"That's a _lie_," you say hoarsely; and you know your voice carries the weight of truth. It's a 'your-word-against-theirs' scenario – and, not for the first time, you're immeasurably grateful you've got the solid backing of a reputation as a straight-laced, straight-A student. "Greenwood and I are barely friends. I've never been in a _homosexual_ relationship in my life." You're ashamed to realize that it gives you a dark thrill of pleasure to see Parsons squirm in discomfort as you say 'homosexual'.

You can't help it; your gaze is drawn to him. Phil's cheeks are chalk white, his betrayed brown eyes huge wells of hurt. He looks like you've just _slapped_ him across the face.

"Is that right?" And Phil – _dear, sweet_ Phil who's _honest_ as the day is _long_ – bows his head in defeat.

"Yes, sir," he rasps.

Parsons looks vaguely reassured. "You'll both be excused from tomorrow's classes. Of course, I'll have to call your parents – "

"Please, sir; don't bother," you cut in quickly, heart leaping in anxiety. "My father's working late and won't answer any outside calls. I'll explain everything to him when he comes home, tonight. I can get along until then."

The history teacher doesn't like it; but he acquiesces, albeit reluctantly. "If you're sure, MacMillan… Go see the nurse, though, before you leave. She can check you out, give you…some band-aids, or an ice-pack, maybe… You, too; Greenwood."

"Of course, sir," you answer him, knowing full well you won't. All you _need_ is another pair of eyes full of _pity_…or _worse_. Besides, you've got both band-aids and ice for a cold-pack at your place – which you'll have to find _before_ your father gets there.

Parsons leaves you, then – and you and Phil are alone. Neither of you can stand to meet the other's eyes. Without a word, you limp your way over to one of the sinks, trying not to walk like you've been kicked by a horse; gingerly wash the blood from your split lip and the cut above your left eye. A check in the mirror shows they don't look too bad at all, once they're clean. You dress quickly and efficiently, sliding on socks and shoes; the long shirtsleeves and trouser-legs of your uniform neatly covering the bruises and scratches on your arms and shins, the padded blazer disguising the slight stoop in the set of your shoulders. There's a handkerchief in your pants pocket; that gets tied around your knee in a brace that lets you walk almost-normally. Your tie is straightened and your hair combed flat – and the ensemble is complete. Taking in the picture you present, you're gratified to see you look like you've done nothing more serious than trip going down the stairs (so long as you don't try and bend over).

Beside you, you're vaguely aware of Phil doing the same – or similar – things. You turn around…and it's simply _amazing_, how _normal_ you both look. Just like _magic._ Like _nothing ever happened_.

And nothing _did_ happen, you forcibly remind yourself. _That's_ what you have to _always_ remember. _Nothing_ happened. _Nothing at all_…

Phil's eyes are boring into your skull, and so you raise your gaze to his face – a face that looks like a _steak knife's_ been driven through his breast. By _you_. It sets a tightness clenching in the pit of your knotted stomach, your still-aching balls. "Joe – "

And your heart would clench, too, if it could – only it's encased in a solid block of glacier ice…or maybe granite. _I'm sorry it has to be this way…_

"Goodbye, Phil," you say, your expression schooled to perfect blankness; and you watch what color remains drain from his pain-twisted features.

You shoulder your gym bag, force yourself to straighten up to your full height despite the flaring piano-wire tautness in your ribs, and stride out the changeroom door.

You _don't look back_.

* * *

(You _hide_, and go on hiding – right up until you hear Simon Church speak at that conference in Europe…and his _words _of inspiration, like _arrows_, blow _straight through _you: because _there it is again_, the _adventure_ of _discovery_. And it's more than a little _frightening_ – how your instinctual…_admiration?_ so easily _overrides_, _drowns_ your practiced caution – but it's 1973, a _brave new world_; and the times have _changed_. Or, maybe, _you_ have.

_Not-so-simple_-Simon – whose eyes, beautifully black as his skin, see much _more_ of you than you'd ever credit or willingly reveal. Who never seeks the story you'll never tell behind your scars; who doesn't ask for the reason you sometimes jolt half-awake from nightmares at three in the morning, drenched in a cold sweat as you sob out, _"Mummy, why'd you let go of my hand?"_ and only kisses your hair and holds you close until the tears stop rolling down your face and you drift off back to sleep. And there's that _feeling_ again as the two of you, _together_, explore the continent; forge new blazing trails…only this time it burns _brighter_, _hotter_, _closer_ to the _heart:_ _redefining_ itself; and in your fear you _can't_ – or _won't_ – give a name to it.

It all comes to a head the night Simon tells you he loves you – _loves _you: _is _that_ what it's called?_ – and _you_…you feel the desperate _wanting_ throb all through you: but you _can't say it back_.

When, with that, the whirlwind tour is over – and Simon's _gone_ and you're once again left _stranded_ on the side of the road, in a cold and empty bed, _alone_ – you realize the times, and you, haven't changed nearly as much as you'd thought. _Not nearly enough_.)

* * *

There's several hours between now and the time your father's supposed to arrive, so you lug down the first-aid kit from its perch on the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard and rummage in it until you scrounge up a band-aid and some hydrogen peroxide for the cut over your eye. From the feel of it, it's swelled up a little; but you figure the band-aid should cover it nicely. And, once you've wrapped some ice in a spare towel from the bathroom, there's nothing left to do – it's just you and the solitude of an empty house.

All you can see – as you fling yourself down on your mattress in your room, icing your knee, and let your eyelids droop – is Mom…her dark eyes, _dead_ as the windows of an abandoned building without the _light_ behind them, set in a face crumpled like paper; staring straight ahead, _staring _at your father – not _Dad_, your _father_ – as he watches the men in coats take her away.

(Their coats aren't _white_, as you'd been expecting for some reason, but rather a washed-out medical _green_ that makes you think of _limes_ and is somehow more frightening. You'll never eat anything with lime in it again.)

And then Mom's brown eyes become _Phil's_ brown eyes – but it's the _same_ pair of dead eyes _staring_ out of the _same_ crumpled-paper face, staring now at _you_ as you stand in your father's place –

And you're sitting bolt upright, your own eyes flown wide open as they blink away tears-that-_don't-exist_…and you _understand_, you _know_ – for a horrifying, sickening, _fascinating_ moment – what it is to _be_ your father.

(Your father _doesn't know _you saw; _doesn't know_ you know Mom is – _could_ be, _might_ be – still alive. He'd told you first that she left him, _abandoned_ you; then, later, that she was dead. In a way, you suppose, she really _is_ – the part of her that counted, anyway; that _mattered_, that _dreamed_. And, so, you repay him in kind…and let him _believe the lie_: that _you believe_.)

You're doing the one thing you _swore_ you'd never do – _become your old man_ – and it _terrifies_ you.

* * *

You've got your story for your father ready and rehearsed by the time you hear the car pull into the driveway at some time past midnight, though you know (as you roll over and _pretend_ to sleep) the subject won't come up until tomorrow morning. At which point your glib response to the raised eyebrow is:

"Me and some of the others were just horsing around in the changeroom after gym class – guess it got a little out of hand." Superficially it's so close to the truth, it doesn't even _sound_ like a lie. And if your eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot, it's only because you stayed up too late, waiting (_not_ because you were _crying;_ because _there's nothing to cry about_).

You don't tell him you have the day off, since that would raise more questions than you've got answers for.

The eyebrow doesn't lower; but you get a perfunctory nod and a drawn-out, unbroken silence…and you know, though your father hasn't said a word, the conversation is _closed_.

* * *

Your father continues to say _nothing_ – nothing at _all_ – during the couple of weeks following that you spend pussy-footing around as you try to simultaneously hide and nurse your bruised ribs and wrenched knee, though you're sure he has his suspicions. You're not sure whether to _thank_ him or _hate_ him for it.

(You _know_, _long_ before the letter from the school arrives concerning your conduct – and Phil's, and the three bullies' – that you're going to be switching schools again.)

* * *

It occurs to you eventually that what makes you _different_ is that _what_ you love, _if_ you love – _are you _capable_ of loving?_ – is not _flesh and blood_, but the _thoughts, _the _ideas_, that they generate: that _one_ thought, that _single_ idea _nobody sees_ and yet will shape the _future_ bearing down on the unsuspecting world like a _freight train_; will _change everything_.

You wonder, sometimes, what it would be like to love a _person_.

(When twenty-two-year-old coder Cameron Howe drops in on your guest lecture in 1983, you think, for the first time, you might just find out. Because…to love the _idea_ of Cameron is to love _Cameron herself_ – a _prodigy_, a _genius_, a _decade_ behind you in years and yet _light-years ahead_ of where you were, then; she is _tomorrow_.

The _threatening shape_ of her – _prickly, uncompromising, unwilling to change_ to fit the world but rather _changing the world_ to fit _it_ – is _perfect_ under your hands.

Her_ piercing, crystal-blue_ eyes see_ further_ than anyone else's – her _blistering impatience_, her _unreasonable faults_, her _cutting tongue_: they _grate_ at you, _strip_ you of all your armor, your defenses, your lies; _flay_ you down to the bone and _deeper_, _lay_ your heart _open_ to her gaze. And you feel her _dive in_, feel her fingers _working away_ there; as they skate and roam over your bare skin at night or tap in clacking strokes on a computer keyboard during the day: _reprogramming, rewriting_ you to force a need for such _honesty_, such _authenticity_, that you actually _break down_ at last and _tell_ her – _only_ her – the pure, unvarnished _truth_ about your _scars_, about your _mother_ who was so _full_ of ideas that she turned to cigarettes and pills and strange white powders to keep them all inside, about the _fall_, about…_everything_. It's supposed to be _contradictory_ – to feel so _vulnerable_ and yet so _safe_ at the same time – but, somehow, it isn't; when you're in her arms. Her eyes… LCD screens are about ten years down the road; but when they get here, you'll think on the words _'liquid crystal'_ and remember _Cameron's eyes_.

You're sure she must have found it, by now – the _logic error_ in your _source code_, that prevents you from ever being able to be like the rest of humanity – but for all the _changes_ she's made, she leaves this part of you _untouched_: instead, teaching you to _read_, to _interpret_, the _output_ in ways you've never done, before. _Discovery_.

And now you think you may be _ready_, this time; to _name_ this _thing_ between you as _love_ – but _Cameron_…you can't help but be afraid that she's _seen, sees_, too much: and that once she realizes that, for all your _dreams_ and _visions_, you're still just a _man_ – _lost_ and _searching_ – she'll drift away and _leave you_, too.)

* * *

You never see Phil again. His parents pull him out of school before the changeroom incident is a week old – you find out a short time later they've pulled up stakes completely and left the state.

(You only see his name again nearly twenty years later, at Cardiff; on the inside fold of a newspaper some visiting executive's discarded, left lying around on a side-table. You read of his success in business and marriage, his wife and two children – of how he went home to them one night…and _shot_ himself with the handgun he'd kept locked in the top drawer of his study desk. You _don't_ read his last words in the published suicide note which follows – you have a feeling you may already know what they are.

Cameron and Gordon look askance at the open bottle of slivovitz on your desk when the lunch hour rolls around – apart from it's against company policy, they know of your supposed preference for wines, certainly over Jewish brandy – but they've learned not to ask too many questions. They don't push for details. You don't give them any.)

You spend that June-July-August telling yourself it's for the best – a clean slate, a clean _break_. But, as you lie awake at night and _not-tears_ stain your face, you can't help but _wonder_, wistfully, what it might have been like if he'd _stayed_.

* * *

It's a year later – the summer-of-your-first-love is over, a new school term is starting; and you're a year older…sixteen, now. You've _grown_, hit a late growth spurt in these few intervening months – and you find being suddenly several inches _taller_ than your peers, shoulders _broadened_ though your hips are still narrow, rather than making you clumsy and uncoordinated has given you a newfound _confidence_; lent a _surety_ like _grace_ to your steps and movements.

You take a calculated stroll, _stalking_ down unfamiliar hallways like a brooding storm front in your denim and leather – no preppy private school, this – and discretely eye the senior girls in their miniskirts and skin-tight sweaters as they bend over to grab an armload of books from their lockers; giving you a good look at long, coltish legs that go on for miles. You do _not_ eye the boys…especially not the more appealingly attractive ones; who lounge along the walls outside classroom doors like young wolves, hungry and lean.

It does not take long for you to feel the eyes similarly trained on _you_ – curious and eager and _predatory_, giving you that first once-over, sizing you up: smelling _fresh blood_.

You crack a smile – a _secret_ one, only for yourself – and set to _work_.

By the end of your first day, you've learned pretty Gennie – _not_ Genevieve, thank you; she _hates_ that name – Tilsden ranks top marks across all subjects in your year…and she's in your homeroom. _That's about to change_, you vow (by the time the midterms are over, it _has_), and flash her your most _charming_ smile that has her blushing appreciatively as the teacher makes the introductions.

You make sure to brush your hand over the scratch-scarred wood of her desk as you walk back to your seat. You can feel the heat of her gaze following you, as it trails over your back…and _lower_.

Within three days, you've more than established a presence in terms of academic intelligence, studiously ignoring the swivel of Gennie's head as she turns to look at you each time your hand beats hers to an answer. By Friday, all you need to do is whisper in her ear, "Meet me out front of the boys' bathroom when the bell rings," as you stand behind her in line in the cafeteria to know she'll _be_ there, _waiting_ – and the _squeak_ of her shocked astonishment is music to your ears as you propel her through the door, your hands gripping her by the shoulders, and roughly _crush_ your mouth down over hers.

Her lips are soft and slightly moist, where Phil's were chapped and dry. She tastes of _peppermint_ and _bubblegum_ and schoolgirl _naïveté _(_sweet sixteen_ and _never been kissed_) – you wonder if she can taste the tartness of now-habitual _cynicism_, like _cigarette smoke_, on your tongue. You pull back for a second to heave in a breath, taking in the dark pink of her flushed cheeks and the fever-brightness of her eyes – and then she's on you like a _wildcat_; arms _coiling_ around you like a _serpent_, her nails digging into your shoulder-blades through the leather of your jacket as she stands on tiptoe, tries to hitch one leg up around your waist.

Your new height has given you new strength, and Gennie is a small girl – short and slender – so it takes relatively little effort to haul her up until her thighs lock snugly around your hips and you hold her there, palming her ass through the thin fabric of her summer skirt. Her body's pressed all along yours from chest to groin – and you can't help but notice how _different_ it feels; how her _curves_ are _gentle_ and _yielding_ where Phil was _straight_ and _hard_ and _rigid_. But her crotch is hot and damp as it _grinds_ against yours encased in your jeans, and the _sweet, desperate friction_ as your hips buck in answer is the same as you remember it.

Your lips never leave hers as you carry her across the floor to plunk her down on the counter of the row of sinks, still standing between her legs; her fingers tearing at your shirt as she works to untuck it. And then her hands are slipping _under_, are on bare skin; running over the smattering of freshly-sprouted hair there, traveling down the length of your lean torso – slightly repulsed (as she's _supposed_ to be, you think resentfully) but undeterred by the scars she encounters – before moving round to the back to trace the ridge of your spine. Your open mouth trails wet kisses along her fine-boned jaw, slides down her neck, nips at her exposed collar-bones as you swiftly undo the buttons of her short-sleeved blouse. She _gasps_ as your lips follow the path of your fingers, tracking down the bared expanse of her chest to meet the lace tops of her demure, strapless brassiere as they come to rest between her breasts; then gasps _again, louder_, at the feel of your hands on her naked back as they nimbly work open the clasp and yank it loose.

Her flesh is silky smooth, warm and supple as you squeeze and knead; her little breathy moans intoxicating as she leans against the mirror and _arches_ into your touch. And then your mouth lifts, moves sideways – and Gennie's head falls back as you latch onto her right breast, suckling _hard_; your tongue lapping, dragging in slow swirls _around_ and _around_ and _over_ her perking nipple. She _shudders_, and your now-empty left hand grips her hip to hold her steady; though your right never leaves its place, fingers pinching and tweaking. Her hands slither out from underneath your shirt to fist tightly in your hair – and she _pulls_, enough to make your scalp ache, _cries out_ as your teeth graze the tender nub.

"Joe…" she sighs, making your jeans tighten uncomfortably, "oh, Joe…oh my _God_…"

And now she's pushing at your shoulders impatiently, struggling to sit up, as she seizes both your wrists and drags your hands _down_.

She knows what she wants, you have to give her that – and so you _do_, with pleasure; feeling up her thighs, rucking up the pleated folds of her skirt until it's bunched around her waist while your mouth switches sides to lavish the same attentions on her left breast it had on her right. You bring your left hand up to pick up where lips and tongue left off, massaging the spit-dampened skin and rolling the nipple between forefinger and thumb so your hard work doesn't go to waste – but your right hand you keep _just_ where it is, fingers _pressing_ against that soaked patch of cotton at the front of her panties and _rubbing_, _fast_ and _firm_, until Gennie's needy whines turn breathless –

And then it's your turn to gasp, to suck in a hissing breath through clenched teeth as her hands leave your hair to scrabble first at your jeans, then your boxers as she gets both zippers down and _reaches inside_, her fingers _closing_ around you. Your mouth leaves her skin with a lewd 'pop', your fingers stilling as she draws you out – the cool air, so _brisk_, feels so _freeing_… Her Siamese laser-green eyes – so _different_ from Phil's soft brown – meet yours in a nervous smirk that's obviously meant to be _coy_.

"Big boy," she murmurs throatily; and her hot little palm is _sweaty_ as it begins a long, slow _slide_ down the shaft – _oh!_ but it's not enough: you rip her hand away and bring it up to your mouth; _lick_ a broad stripe from heel to fingers, tasting her salt and yours, before you shove it back down. Always the quick learner, she gets the idea; spits in her palm before taking you in hand once more – and _God_, the smooth, slippery _glide_ is so, _so familiar_ it would bring tears to your eyes…if the _pleasure_ in its wake wasn't so all-consuming. And for all its familiarity, it's just as different: though Gennie's found a rhythm, she works you with _short, jerking tugs_ – not at _all_ like Phil's _long, screwdriver-twisting pulls_ that spanned the length of you from base to head – but then, you consider indulgently, she can't have been blessed with _quite_ the same hands-on, _first-hand_ experience…can she?

Regardless, the result is _toe-curling_ at any rate – and right now that's all you have time or inclination to be caring about. Gennie's hitting her stride, now: adding deliciously _painful_ squeezes, _thumbing _over your already-weeping slit with each pass; daring to be brave enough to reach for your balls with her other hand, testing the _weight_ of them, _rolling_ them gently, experimentally –

You bite back a groan, _smother_ it by going in for another kiss. She meets you eagerly halfway – and then _huffs_ in breathless surprise as you hook your fingers in her waistband and _tear_ her panties down her long legs so they hang limp around her ankles, and drag her to the edge of the counter, closer to you. Your palms are on her shapely thighs again, spreading them _wide_ – and she _moans_, _long_ and _loud_, into your mouth as your right hand's fingers reach _between_ and touch her, _bare, there_ for the first time.

Her hand leaves off fondling your balls to clutch for purchase at your shoulder, the pads of her fingers digging into the bones there – and you, for your part, nearly stutter to a halt again as more profound novelties now assert themselves: you're shocked, distracted for a split instant by how Gennie _folds inward_ under your touch, where Phil _jutted out_…but (what else did you expect?) it's all perfectly _normal_, of course, even if it does feel not quite _natural_; and that's what this is about, after all – being _normal_. _Normal_ and _natural_ – there _is_ a difference, you've learned, between the two. And the _soft scratch_ of wiry curls, the _hot slickness_ drenching your hand, are very much the _same_.

She _melts_ beneath you as you bear down on her; and so, you press forth, _explore_ – tracing and probing, until your fingers happen to run over a _sensitive, turgid_ little bundle of nerves that _swells_ under your ministrations and has Gennie _jumping_, hips bucking forward so she meets the curve of your cupped palm, her moans choked off by a sudden cry muffled by the hard press of your lips on hers. You brace your left hand on her thigh, splayed fingers bound to leave bruises – forcing her legs to stay open, holding her down – even as her grip on your cock tightens almost unbearably while her hand on your shoulder climbs back into your hair, curling into it, grasping the short strands for an anchor. The kiss you two share is wet as it is sloppy: all clacking teeth and twined tongues dueling for dominance like a pair of angry Moray eels; filled with a frantic _urgency_ – an _ardor_ – that had not been there previously.

Keeping your thumb on her clit (how well you remember reproductive biology one-oh-one), circling it steadily round and round, you reach _back_ with your fingers, _searching_ – until they find what they're looking for and make that first _dip_, that first _push_, up and _in_. Gennie lugs on your hair with enough gusto to nearly scalp you as she lets out a very unladylike _squeal_ – _unladylike_, for a young _lady_ who's allowing, _begging_ a young _man_ to _finger_ her while she gives him a _handjob_ in the boys' bathroom of the local high school.

"_Yes_, Joe; _more_. Give me _more_. Please. _Please_…" She's _babbling, pleading_, her eyes _molten_ and _black_ as your own must be; and she punctuates her words with – _finally_ – _long, dragging, wrenching_ pulls so it's all you can do not to _thrust_ into that _narrow, close_ little tunnel her hand makes. And it would be nigh _unconscionable_ to refuse her request, but first – You take your hand away, earning yourself a _whimper_ of serious disappointment, as it comes up to your mouth, _shiny_ and _dripping_; and you stare right into Gennie's widening eyes as you draw your fingers through your parted lips to let the evidence of her arousal fall across your tongue. The sharp _tang_ of her is _sweet_ as it is _bitter_: the flavor of guilty victory – an acquired taste. She's struck _speechless_ by how _shockingly sinful_, how _dirty_, this is – but she's no more the type to back down from a challenge than you are; and so, she grabs hold of your proffered hand and takes your fingers into her own mouth, cheeks hollowing as she sucks on them for the dregs, for what remnants are to be had, tasting herself.

You smile – a pointed, cutting thing – and reward her by trailing your hand down again between your bodies and shifting it into place. Your fingers know the path now, make their way leisurely amid her flower-petal folds…and now you begin your own _slow slide_ as, with a delicacy that belies your frenetic state, the tip of one long forefinger _maneuvers_ its way past her entrance and slips _inside_ –

It's a _snug_ fit, and the heat is _scalding, incredible_; but Gennie's body gives _beautifully_ under your prodding, pressing touch: _opening_ for you, _easing_ your passage, and you work your way deeper, _deeper_ – and you watch her back and neck _arch_ like a dancing swan's as her mouth, so _pretty_, so _red_, drops open _wide_ in a silent _scream_. Her eyes are rolling back into her head as they flutter closed, and you're sure she's seeing those same _stars_ you did, years before.

At long last, you're _buried_ in her to the hilt. She finds her voice to again beg you _shamelessly, wantonly_, for more – and you're happy to oblige; already _tickling, teasing_ her with the promise of a second finger, when you hear it –

The bathroom door creaks as it inches open, preceding the flat clap of Mary Janes announcing the quick footsteps that come around the corner. A snooty, snippety voice calls out in an aggravating nasal twang, "Gennie? I _know_ you're here, I _saw_ you come in with – "

The phrase is abruptly cut off by a near-_scandalized_ gasp – and, in the mirror, your snapped-up gaze catches the eyes of Doreen Medwynn: Gennie's best friend and the school's worst (as in most _insatiable_) gossip…and the only person whose nosy curiosity you'd trust to urge her into breaking taboo and trespassing on forbidden territory.

With dainty hands raised to her O-shaped mouth, her stance affects that of a snared rabbit – but her beady, shrewish eyes do not flinch from yours as they take in Gennie's rumpled half-nakedness and your own state of acute dishabille, both of your flushed and sweating faces, your pressed-together bodies. She makes no move to leave – and, as she so obviously expects a show, you offer her one along with an absolutely _wicked_, thin-lipped smile…and _let_ her see the effect the addition of another finger has on her girlfriend as you ease it _all_ the way in. Gennie's _oblivious_, too far gone to notice _anything_; her thighs tremble and she moans as if tortured as your two inserted fingers _scissor_ and _stretch_ inside her before beginning to _pump in and out, in and out_ in a steady rhythm as your thumb keeps up its small circles and _sweeps_ over her swollen clit, _back and forth, back and forth_ in the same beat, the same cadence, your eyes never leaving Doreen's –

And then, something in the _texture_ beneath your fingertips _changes_ as you press them forward as far as you can reach: they seem to _snag_ on a patch of new and unexpected _roughness, firmness_ – and Gennie goes _rigid, quivering_, as she lets out a little _shriek_, face buried in the side of your neck as you loom over her…and you realize you've managed to find what you'd so far only heard vague reference made to in ribald fable and humor. And so you crook your fingers deliberately and brush over that secret spot _again_ – and again, and again: _faster_, now; and _faster still_ as Gennie's moans grow increasingly high-pitched and desperate, forming an _aria_ of escalating _oh Oh OH!s_, her grip on your hair pulling _painfully_, and her hand moves over you _frenziedly_ –

White-hot pleasure is _pooling, coiling_ in your gut; intense pressure _building_ in the pit of your belly, between your thighs, at the base of your spine: the first _tingles_ of orgasm beginning to _spread, unravelling_ like thread from a dropped spool. Gennie's _shaking_, uncontrollably now, beneath you; your own knees are _buckling_ with tremors, so you're sure only your hold on her outflung leg is keeping you upright – this can't possibly _last_, you're both so _close_, locked to one another in a race to the end…but, for your stubborn pride and the still-watching Doreen and the vindictive point you're trying to prove, you'll be _damned_ if Gennie doesn't reach that finish line _first_.

You _curl_ your fingers _cruelly_, making a hook, and _dig in, drive in: harder_ – and your eyes pin the _beet-red_ Doreen in place as your simpering _smile_ widens into a _grin_ of obscene triumph, like a shark smelling _blood in the water_, when your fingers feel that first convulsive _clench_ around them as Gennie's suddenly _there: putty_ under your hands, whole body _spasming_ and _arching_ against you, _keening_ in a drawn-out, open-mouthed _wail_ of _ecstasy_ as she reaches the _peak_ of that final _release_ –

(The gossip's _flustered_, face _flaming_: she'll _remember_ what she's seen, of that you have no doubt. She's glaring _daggers_ at you as she all but _flees_ the bathroom – but her furious gaze is filled not with _disgust_…but rather _jealousy_.

By the time school starts up again on Monday morning, the news has spread like _wildfire_: how, before the first week was out, the new guy _nailed_ the smartest girl in the eleventh grade – brought her to _screaming_ climax – in the _magnificent squalor_ of the _boy's room_. Rumors and whispers _fly_…but the eyes that track you now hold a dubious _respect_; nary a one thinks to question which side of the fence you're on: that's been _decisively, unequivocally_ put to _rest_ – etched in _stone_.

_Perfect_: that's _just_ the way you _like_ it.)

– and it's enough to send you _hurtling_ over the edge of that last cliff in _freefall_ after her as you reach your own _summit_, world _whiting out_ as the ultimate pleasure _washes, breaks_ over you in _cresting waves_… You muffle your _delirious groans_ in the crook of Gennie's neck as your head drops to her shoulder; sucking, biting a fair-sized _hickey_ into the soft, delectable skin there that her hair won't quite cover as a _memento_, a bruised and puffy _souvenir_.

If you could _think_ around the _roaring ocean_ of blood _pounding_ in your ears – _feel_ beyond this achieved, attained _nirvana_, this _sea of euphoria_ – you might even now _remember_ Phil, and come to _know_ the _treacherous despair_ of Judas, that lost twelfth disciple…

But to be able to feel _anything at all_, you reason contemplatively, _first_ you have to _survive_.

* * *

(Time: passed – years: rolled on by. A venerable, brown-bricked building. Wood-paneled interior walls, mahogany-warm. An office door that reads, 'Joe MacMillan – HUMANITIES'.

Lime-colored walls – _bitter_, but no longer _frightening_. An old Cardiff Electric model. A carved stone statuette of Buddha. Rows of books. Photographs – _memoirs_ – of Cameron, of Gordon, of Haley…of you with your mother.

A cluttered, well-used desk. A Japanese tetsubin, from which you pour yourself a cup of tea and take a sip.

And a blue-and-white diamond-backed tarot card – peeling slightly at the edges, beginning to fade – that you've been told shows _your future_: a thicket of swords thrust into a prone body.

_Destruction. Agony of indecision. Misery._ Nothing new – you've lived with these all your life. And yet…

Behind the picket fence of blades: a glimpse of a _golden horizon_ beyond the storm clouds.

You tuck the card carefully into the book you're reading to mark your place –

And smile. Resolve to wait. _Wonder_. And…_move on_.)


End file.
